


Hatchet Man

by Boris_the_Belligerent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 50-50 plot and porn?, Abusive fetish, Baiting, Dark Humor, Deus ex Machina- some characters are dead kek, Draco has shit sense of humor, Draco is a beta chad, Harry is a chad, Legilimency/Occlumency fetish, Love is for normies, M/M, Making love is boring, Mediocre Star Wars references, Not DH compliant, Porn with some plot, Post-Hogwarts, Pre-Epilogue, Smut and Angst, Top!Harry, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Tension, Want/Hate, bottom!Draco, plot with some porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-22 20:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18535090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boris_the_Belligerent/pseuds/Boris_the_Belligerent
Summary: Pansy had asked him once, “What do you do up there with him?” and Draco, given his poor humor, had answered with a shrug, “I torture him.”Draco was a house elf in the morning, and Potter’s personal hatchet man by noon.TL;DR-- sex, war and mind games.





	1. Morning till Noon

Few would understand how Draco felt about Harry Potter. Amid the terror of war, people were prone to romanticize the every day. The mornings were never want for dramatic hand-holding and tear-filled whispers, promises of tomorrow and ridiculously drawn-out snogging as the Weasel and Pansy usually did right after breakfast. Draco would often retreat in the kitchen to help clean up just to avoid all the fuss— Mrs. Weasley, eyes red and lips pale (as always), would acknowledge his ‘kindness’ with a gentle pat on the back (as always). Draco would leave right after. He’d made the mistake of keeping her company once. After listening to a mother blabbing about ‘Ronald’s’ first broom ride and ‘Freddie and Georgie’s’ endearing pranks— “Oh but they were so _endearing.”—_ and _her_ — “… my sweet Ginny.”— Draco realized how little he cared for blood purity. He just really disliked the Weasleys. Every single one of them. He disliked Molly the least. 

Molly was a good mother— was a _mother_ , period— and so she was the last person in the world to understand the abnormal contortions of a teenaged boy’s head. Draco knew this because Molly was very much like his own mother— well, they were different in every way except being a mother, at least. Draco never once opened up to Narcissa the crude and petty reality of his thoughts— not even when he was eleven and he had his first erection. It wouldn’t make sense to Molly that Draco didn’t care if Ronald Weasley was killed, just as it wouldn't make sense to Narcissa that Draco was in fact a coward. 

So much of a coward that he’d rather be hanging the werewolf’s clothes and mending the robes of Phoenix rebels (Draco always rolled his eyes at the lack of originality) and, yes, cleaning after the Weasel and his brood, than raise a wand in battle, let alone against Baldewarts. 

Yes, Draco called the Dark Lord— the new Chancellor of _the whole fucking continent,_ as of last month— Baldewarts. It was as much a resistance to Commandment Two of the First Wizarding Reich— “Thou shalt not take the name of the Dark Lord in vain” (trust "He-who-Must-not-be-Named" to make up a crummy catchphrase) — as it was a revolutionary call to arms, thank you very much.  No, he didn’t entirely steal it from the twins. If anything, he improved upon it. 'U-No-Poo' was just willfully unimaginative. 

Case in point, Draco told himself. His mother wouldn’t understand. She had the courage to smuggle her son under the nose of her own superiors and allies, and the humility to knock on her muggle-loving sister’s door to beg for sanctuary. _For my son, just for my son._ Draco could make fun of the Dark Lord, but he didn’t have an iota of valor that either— that _both—_ of his parents had. His father had protected him. His mother had saved him. And Draco was happy to spend that freedom folding socks like a house elf.

“I am a bloody house elf. That’s what I am.” He said out loud to himself. Well, to Kreacher as well, who had been making the beds but now was staring at him like a hippogriff on the loose. Draco shrugged at him and asked about his childhood— “Do house elves go through puberty?”— if only to stop thinking about his mother. 

No, nobody in this crippled house— grim, old place is quite a deserving name— or this godforsaken country could even imagine. Draco had accepted that a year ago, when he first came through the door and saw _him_. Most days, it didn’t bother Draco. He never forgot, but it didn’t bother him. If anyone asked him how he felt about the Golden Savior, he would say in a heartbeat, “Never liked him,” any other day. 

Except when the clock tolled for noon and Kreacher, who was mid-sentence —“… a ritual of great tradition that every worthy house elf of the third of his name…”— would disappear in a powdery pop. Except now.

Draco never disturbed the silence. Sometimes it would last for seconds, sometimes an hour. This time, it was five past noon when Kreacher reappeared and told him he was “being summoned” on the fourth floor. 

Pansy had asked him once, “What do you do up there with him?” and Draco, given his poor humor, had answered with a shrug, “I torture him.” 

Draco was never good at lying. By the time he opened the door, Potter, once the Boy-Who-Lived (equally crummy nom de guerre), now a man (by appearance at least) was already stripping his shirt. Rare were the times when Draco could stomach it without sneering or rolling his eyes. How the prat could develop even an inch of muscle with all the shit he’d been eating— stale bread, sugar cubes, red meat and firewhisky— was a mystery. Then again, Draco never fully audited the ‘training’ sessions that occupied most of Potter’s day. Nobody would even dare imagine how Potter spent seven hours inside four windowless walls, with Severus Snape of all people.

“Get in and shut the door.” Severus sounded eager beneath the insipid voice. Potter was doing push-ups on the wall rather than limping against it. Limbs and teeth still intact. He was stirred up, shaking the sweat off his hair like a street mutt. Must be a good day. 

“Physical?” Draco was already running an amalgamation of curses in his head. After parting a few words to Potter, Severus walked to him and handed him a wand— the Elder Wand.

_Surprise him. No restraints. One full hour._

The echo of Severus’ voice fainted to the corners of his head the moment his fingers enveloped the wand. Another thing that Draco couldn’t share to the simple world— the feeling of potent force slicing through his hand up to his arm and his whole body just by holding the most powerful wand made in history. it was fucking _raw._

Draco released a long and heavy breath. Potter. 

Look at this _dog,_ Draco. What he’s done to you. What he’s taken from you. Look at that fucking mark on your arm. He did that— his fucking war did that. Those scars on your chest. The ones that will _never_ heal. _He did that._ Remember that night, Draco. Remember when he watched you bleed on your own blood. He’s a fucking monster. No less than the Dark Lord. Remember the nights at the grand table in the Manor, Draco. Every single night, blood spilt right in front of you, of people, helpless innocent people who trusted this cunt to save them. The limbs. The eyes. The tongues. The feeding of that disgusting snake, staining the table where your family used to eat. Harry Potter. The Boy who fucking lived. _How many more people are going to die for you, Potter? Your parents died for you, Albus Dumbledore had himself killed for you, even your own whore couldn’t stand you. They raped her, remember that? Raped her and raped her all night, every night, while my darling aunt sliced her head open just to get all that precious information about you. I would know, I watched._

A growl forced his eyes open. But Potter hadn’t budge— not a tensed muscle in sight, not an angry vein pulsating in his jaw or his forehead. His hands were steady and his breath was unshaken. He was still and calm. Only his eyes left a hint. Without glasses, Potter’s eyes could light a village and burn it to the ground. 

_Tough. Would you be able to stare_ him _down?_ Draco paced himself. He twisted the wand in his hand playfully as he marched across the room— forcing himself not to slow his stride— and raised the Wand. 

 

“ _Reducto.”_

 

_Confringo._

 

_Crucio._

 

_“Sectumsempra.”_

 

_Expulso._

 

_Dismembrio._

 

_“Imperio.”_

 

Each spell streamed from the tip of the wand like poetry. And most of them, Potter blocked without even moving a finger. The curses bounced off of him and scattered around the room in a dangerous fury of spark and smoke. Neither did he flinch from the few but severe gashes that managed to slice through his invisible armour.

Draco didn’t stop, concocting hybrids of hexes and curses for the next half hour either by voice or in thought. Potter was receiving damage but he was bruising less. And he was learning to be patient. But Draco had three years to craft his patience at the face of death to survive. One didn't endure by composure alone. One needed to match it with a reflex of refined spontaneity. He watched Potter, waited until they were eye to eye, waited for the invading presence in his thoughts, before he released the final silver bullet.

_Fuck me, Harry. “Avada—”_

Potter tensed and the few unguarded seconds enabled Draco. He released the Wand and flexed his fingers towards the sod’s stupefied stupid face.

_Legilimens._

Skin. Blood. Sweat. Begging. And _Ginny, James Sirius is too much. He’ll get bullied at school. Oh, please. No one would dare bully the son of the Boy-Who-Lived— Have your eyes and— I love y— foy. MALFOY— You fucking disgus— LIAR— kill YOU. I— want— rip your FUCKING THROAT—Ugh. Please, more— DIE!_

“Stop.” The memories, the voices, died at Severus’ command. Draco promptly withdrew his hand, turned away and bolted to the door before Potter could collect himself from the floor. 

That was how his days started. A house elf in the morning, and Potter’s personal hatchet man by noon.


	2. Sundown

By sundown, the routine was different. It would depend on the casualties and the collaterals. Draco never included himself in the “meetings”— it didn’t matter that his aunt was a card-carrier of the Order, or his godfather was a counterspy for the last 18 years  _and_  mentoring their golden ticket (or even that the rebels were technically living under _his_ ancestral home), it went unsaid that he was not welcome in intel assemblies. But the murmurs during breakfast confirmed enough that an ambush was being set— Draco didn’t know who the target was. He didn’t want to know.

He tallied the bandages, gauzes and the medical supply of potions. “Running low on restorative draughts and Skele-Gro. Last bottle of Salamander blood. Consider supply run by the end of the week.” Pansy rarely spoke at this hour, only scribbled diligently. Draco knew her well enough that it wasn’t out of sentiment for Weasley— she was saving her energy just in case. But the bags under her eyes and the cracks on her lips… Draco rather not say a word. He needed her on alert in case tonight’s numbers were heavy—

“Draco.” Severus’ voice lashed from the door. Pansy flinched but stilled herself immediately before pecking Draco on the cheek—“I’ll be in Ron’s room.”— and retiring the room. 

Draco kept his eyes on the bottles and his back to the door. He wished the numbers were heavy. He wished desperately that Weasel and his flock would return already. He’d rather endure broken limbs, cracked skulls and splinch wounds than—

“Restore him.”

Restore him. Draco cursed those words with a long, labored sigh.

His hands had already memorized the potions and herbs that Potter needed nearly every night, but Draco fussed and gathered them idly, if only to delay actually looking at Potter. Potter, who entered the room limping— Draco's eyes rolled— shrugging off his lacerated muggle shirt that he carelessly threw into the fireplace.

“How’s the ambush?” Potter’s voice was weighted with exhaustion. 

“Postponed. Lupin was tipped off by a deserter. The pack is moving her west.” 

Severus lingered by the fire. Draco was relieved. He felt more at ease— trusted— to examine Potter under the only authority that Potter recognized in the house. Except that, instead of the five beds with freshly laundered sheets, Potter sat on the only chair against the wall. Draco gritted his teeth, he had half a mind to empty a vial of Vitriol on Potter’s lap. 

Potter had the gull to snort. 

_Stay out of my fucking head._ Draco tapped his wand on a bottle of Murtlap Essence until the liquid sizzled inside.

“Why aren’t they back yet? Ah—”

Draco bit down his smirk as Potter hissed from the biting heat of the liquid unceremoniously poured over the slits on his shoulder.

“He’s scouting for another base so as not to waste the manpower and the reserves.” The warning in Severus’ voice dissuaded Draco but not enough to keep him from tightening the bandage on Potter’s shoulder to the point of discomfort. Potter didn’t seem to mind. Didn’t _seem_ to.

“Where?” 

“You know enough.”

Potter didn’t argue. After a year being under Severus, one learned not to argue. Draco would know.

There were minor cuts and bruises on Potter’s face (not nearly enough, unfortunately). His left wrist was dislocated. One ankle was nearly broken. Compared to the usual fractured ribs, missing fingers and internal bleeding months ago, Potter was becoming less and less prone to physical damage. Not that Draco was impressed-- especially given the large patch of burnt skin on Potter's right thigh.

“Your right leg needs strengthening. It's becoming a blind spot.” Severus continued.

“Weights?”

“No. Speed. You need to be faster, not heavier—”

“Are you calling me fat?” 

“—Have Jones drill you for the next month. I want to see you outrun and outfly her.”

“When are you going to teach me how to fly without support?”

“When you’ve mastered the ground, Potter.” It was Draco’s turn to snort— that will be the day. “Draco, temper his mental barriers for the next two days while he heals. All his physical advancements are of no use if he cannot protect his mind from a simple surprise manoeuvre.”

The door slammed shut.

Draco feigned nonchalance in the drifting seconds, silently screaming to powers above for an earthquake, a nuclear explosion, a fucking herd of hippogriffs—  _something_  to tear the walls down.But like so many nights, only the click of the door lock responded. He was once again left, trapped, with Potter.


	3. Night

Few would understand how Potter was like with Draco. Draco himself didn’t comprehend the dynamic he served in Potter’s life. When his mother had embraced him for the last time and disappeared through the door, he'd thought he was going to die the next day, simply because he no longer knew how to imagine beyond the worst. After what he had seen, after what he had to do, what he had to sacrifice the last three years, Draco learned never to hope-- even with Severus' hand on his shoulder. The world was burning then, it was still burning now. His mother had just thrown him into the water. Burning or drowning? Which was a better way to die?

“Whichever’s quicker.” Draco looked up from appraising the fractured wrist, somewhat startled. Potter was staring blankly at the fire, aloof. Telepathic stealth was improving… Self-healing had accelerated as well. All the scratches and bruises on his face had already healed half way. It was admittedly— _begrudgingly_ — impressive. 

Draco gagged his thoughts immediately and refocused on the wrist, lightly squeezing the swollen parts until Potter flinched. “You can heal this on your own, can't you?” He asked bluntly. Potter looked down on his hand and closed it into a fist. In a few moments, Draco heard an unsavory series of small pops and watched Potter tinker and straighten the juts swelling from his wrist without so much as a grunt. “Save the Skele-Gro. Just use a muggle cast for that.” He said, nodding to his ankle. 

_Masochist_ _._ Draco allowed the thought to ripple in echoes as he noisily rummaged through the medical supply for mould and muggle bandages. Potter had been watching the flames but the moment Draco stood in front of him, his eyes turned to pay attention. Draco reconsidered the Vitriol. He really did for a lengthy minute, torn between searing Potter's whole lower body or emptying the bottle of acid on his eyes.

The latter.

Because Draco, for a time, had been nursing a hunch that Potter didn't actually have a weak spot. The git would just injure his right leg by choice for the guiltless pleasure of having Draco stand painfully close to him. And it was guiltless. Potter always made that clear in these rare times, when he would shamelessly watch Draco sink to his knees.

 _Egotistic barbarian._ Potter never seemed to mind the accusation. 

In the silence, amid the stifling proximity, Draco felt it. A creeping sensation. He began to notice it weeks prior, while readjusting a dislocated joint in Potter’s knee for half an hour. The longer he touched, the stronger it festered. This gradual, concentrated heat that radiated from Potter's skin, from the dead air between them.

Tonight, it had already been lingering the moment Potter walked into the room. Draco could feel the air literally pulsating. As he kneaded the ankle with greasy rose oil—spreading it from the coarse skin around the joint up to the rigid arch of Potter's calf— the air thickened in his lungs. He began to sweat from it, from feeling the potency of Potter’s magic— because that’s what it was— pure, unfettered magic. He had only ever felt such reverberating energy from wielding the Elder Wand... and from one other wizard, the night he took the Mark. That had chilled him to the bone. It didn’t erupt a restless fever inside him as it did now.

In moments like this, Draco was convinced that Potter might have a chance at winning the war. Not one book under colonial Europe documented a wizard or witch who had succeeded to harness pure magical energy by body and mind alone, and at such rate-- Draco knew. He'd spent his entire seventh year rummaging the Restricted Section and the rest of the libraries in Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang to confirm it under Severus' orders _._   _That should persuade you._ His godfather had said to him and his mother. There were still days when Draco doubted-- but they were always outnumbered by nights like this. Nights when he mended mere scratches from curses that, in any other case, could kill an assembly of death eaters. Sometimes, it was frightening to be in the same room as Potter. Wandless magic. Self-healing. Covert legilimency. 

_And deadlift 350 kg._ Draco’s hands stilled.

Potter still stared at the fire, picking at his stubble. Severus had upgraded his eyes after a nearly successful capture in Germany by Yaxley months ago. The git had lost his glasses and had been running blind from a mob of dementors like the usual idiot. Draco always thought it was a mistake. Potter's face had hardened without glasses— there was always an unspoken threat radiating behind every distant look. A brazen confidence that said, I can kill you in a blink. Werewolves, half-giants, mercenaries, death eater deserters, even the Russians— Draco had witnessed them all cower and promise allegiance just by one look from Potter. Yes, Severus had been too excessive in spoiling the mutt's ego. Draco never stood for it.

Slightly but with a tinge of force, he twisted Potter's ankle. Potter hissed.

_Stop squatting in my head, Potter._  

His resistance to pain had tripled by the year, but Potter was still human with pain receptors— Draco never refused himself the opportunity to abuse them. He was still waiting for the proper time to ask for Severus' blessing to hack the leg off if Potter kept injuring it. Preferably while Potter was asleep. Or petrified. Either, really.

“He said to practice.” Potter replied, unfazed, and didn't pull his foot away. “Nice parlor trick earlier.” He said nonchalantly. But Draco heard the menace imbedded in the remark and immediately reinforced his mental barriers, even if he knew-- even if _they_ _both_ knew-- it was of no use.

“He instructed not to use any restraints.” Draco said in defense, refusing the challenge in Potter's dead stare.

“Mm-hm.” The foot on Draco’s lap pressed against his rib threateningly. Draco roughened his stroke, in return, holding on to the little power that he had. This was what he was reduced to in uneventful evenings-- a private nanny. And he wasn't even paid for it.

Suddenly, the mortar of mould he was reaching for hovered above his head. Potter's hand, the one with the injured wrist, was stretched out, calmly levitating the object. “Dress the burn first.”

Maybe Draco wouldn't need Severus' blessing to dismember Potter. Or break the mortar against his scarred head. Draco would risk losing the war just for the satisfaction. He could assassinate Potter now with blunt force trauma against the skull give how close he was. Then Baldewarts would promote him to Reich Minister. Being the right-hand man of a tyrant sounded far better than babysitting this lunatic.

Potter sighed. _Boring way to die_.

With a glare, Draco unceremoniously elbowed off Potter’s foot to his side and kneeled up until he was in between Potter’s legs. The radiating heat doubled— Draco’s back was already damp. Potter hadn’t even broken a sweat. 

A bottle floated over his shoulder. Draco snatched the burn-healing paste from the air without a thanks. 

Potter didn't blink. “One coat’s enough.” He dictated passively. Draco unscrewed the bottle and roughly spread the orange paste with his palm. 

Was it intentional or was it not— Draco didn’t know or care. His nails sank and scraped against the tender skin. Within the second, Potter hissed again and seized his wrist in a hold that Draco knew could break the bone if Potter flickered just one bit to the left. 

In a heartbeat, Draco planted the tip of his wand between Potter's eyes. "Break my hand and I'll open that scar on your head.” Draco muttered between his teeth.

Potter's pulse didn't change a beat. His lips curled and he sneered at Draco for the first time today. Draco had just decided his fate for the night.

Before he could flick his wand, an invisible force lifted him to his feet and against the wall. Potter was in front of him in seconds, standing on both feet. 

“He said to practice."

Draco snarled.  _Fucking mutt_ _._

"How about a second round. Same rules. No restraint. One hour--” With a careless wave, Potter paralysed Draco’s hand until the wand fell from his fingers. "--No wand this time.”


	4. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the readers hoping to get off-- I hope I can get you wet and dripping, baby.
> 
> This will fuck you up, but in a good way. I think.
> 
> Unrestrained violence, blood and mindfucking-- normies beware. 
> 
> Also, I destroyed Ginny's character. Lol.

No one would understand how they were like with each other. Games like this one— Draco had no words for. Only because he didn’t know, he rarely ever knew, how it would play out. There was no pattern. No frequency— except skin, blood and sweat. Too much blood last time. But blood was least of Draco’s fears.

Potter had a unique method of collecting petty justice. A manner that Draco had never seen him show anyone, not even Severus. No, he wouldn’t show this side of himself outside of this hour, outside of this house.

_Not even to her._ Draco was penalized for that thought with his head pummeled hard against the wall. Pain exploded on his cheek as it met Potter’s fist. Before Draco could make a sound from his fractured cheekbone, the same hand was over his mouth. _Silencio_.

“I’ve warned you.” Potter whispered, unruffled, as he whirled Draco’s body effortlessly and planted Draco’s freshly busted cheek against the wall. “I’ve warned you _never_ to use her.” 

Draco listened to his rugged breathing and tried to abate it to the rhythm of the body behind him. He needed to be calm.

_This... this is why you’re still so fucking_ weak _. That brainless cunt—_

 

“Crucio.” 

 

Draco screamed in silence. The pain was familiar, but stronger— unforgiving— like each tooth was being pulled out all at once, like his eyeballs were being boiled into his sockets, like his skin was peeled off from muscle and he was thrown into a tub of sulfur.

“That’s what burning feels like.” The sound of anger in Potter’s biting whisper summoned tears in Draco’s eyes. The feeling of his lips so close to Draco’s ear— it frightened and infuriated him.  _Infuriated_ him.

_That brainless CUNT. Deserved. To die._ Draco buttressed every word into an explosive force of subliminal waves that unleashed in a vigour he had never reached before. It broke off the silencing spell. But Draco further coerced the aftershock of the ripple, compounding it with vision after vision of that night.

The night she came to him. _"-Everything you asked for — Names of the moles—hide out is in Islington. The street's called Grimmauld Place— Can use her muggle parents, she's hid them in Australia— Map of all the decoys and rebel camps near Hogwarts— being moved at the end of the month from Little Whinging— Already briefed Mundugus Flecher—that enough?"_

_Look at her. That dear sweet smile you keep wetting yourself over. That's what a traitor looks like, Potter. How many times? How many more FUCKING times must I show you this?_

“Liar.” the word sliced through gritted teeth and was spat onto his face. 

_"—should think delivering Hermione Granger to you is enough to compensate me."_

_"I think I've proven myself worthy, Lestrange..."_

_That's what a liar sounds like._

" _Liar_."

_Go on, Potter, you're such a brilliant mind fucker yourself-- you should know how to sniff out a false memory by now. Show it to me. Did I miss a freckle or two?  Was her hair not ginger enough? Tits not big enough when my men stripped her? I don't think so, they all seem to enjoy themselves from the looks of it--_

  _CRU _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _—_________

The curse built up with electrifying violence in his head. 

_Alastor Moody._

_Hedwig._

_Students— Her own friends._

_Angelina Johnson._

_Colin Creevey._

_Padma Patil._

_Penelope Clearwater._

_Dean Thomas._

_Granger. Hermione Granger. Your best friend._

_Have you forgotten them?_

_They're all dead because of her._

Draco readied himself for a world of hurt. It had taken him a week to recover last time. Potter might break his record tonight _—_

_ —CIO. _

The curse reverberated in his head like a thunder strike.  

But there was no strength of force accompanying it.  _You have to mean it._ Aunt Bella loved to say. But the numbness that followed in its stead was more excruciating to bear.

Because Potter knew long enough that Draco could block his thoughts and memories from every other person— save his godfather— in this house. He could play chess with the Weasel, cook eggs for the twins, tend to the wounds of Arthur Weasley every time he drove a fork in a socket. Draco could lie right to Molly's face and have tea with the mother of the girl he had killed with his own bare hands _._

But he could never lie to _him_. 

Against the aftershock of the Cruciatus, Draco succumbed more easily than other nights. He felt his barriers muddle and disintegrate like sand. Potter’s presence was a familiar shroud that filtered through every crevice of his mind with ease, traversing the maze that the man knew so well, as well as the scars on the back of his hand. _I shall not tell lies._

_“Malfoy— MALFOY— you fucking SNAKE. FUCKING LIAR _ _—__  I _—_ "_

_She was a traitor._

_"— I’ve told you everything. EVERYTHING— AHH! STOP! Please! PLEASE, DON'T DO THIS _ _ _— WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT? I'LL GIVE YOU ANYTHING _ _ _—______ Y-you can have him! I'll tell you _ _ _— I'll tell you where he is _ _ _—______  Do what you want with him, I  _don't care_! All I want is the fucking portkey! I can’t _—"__

_She betrayed you._

_" _—_ have this— I DON'T WANT THIS THING IN ME—" _

_I killed her for you._

Draco yielded to the weight of the body resting against him, feebly shaking. He listened to the quiet chaos coming undone behind him— teeth gnashing, the trembling palm on his back, its weak effort to pin him against the wall, the swallowed sighs, the sniveling bitten down by grunts, and the crumbling memories—

Promises _—_  " _I never really gave up on you. Not really. I always hoped...."_ _—_ kisses, tenderness _—_ " _It's for some stupid, noble reason, isn't it?_ " _—_ laughter— _"I love you..."— "Yours, Harry."_

_I’ve killed her for you._

_But you have to kill her in here._

His words echoed until they faintly rippled away, and he could hear nothing else but the crackling of the fire and his own heartbeat. 

Draco never knew how it would play out. He had no pattern, no frequency _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _—_________________ only a choice: skin, blood or sweat. And Potter always chose for him.

A crowding mist of comfort and lightness bloomed into his spine. Draco exhaled. All the pain and burning dissipated from underneath his muscles. 

An apology. 

Draco sighed. He wanted to die cocooned in this cloud. He so wanted to. 

But this was Potter.

Draco had made too many mistakes before _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _—_________________ had made too many assumptions _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _—__________________________________ to know better by now. _Never let your guard down_. Severus always said.

 In a breath, he elbowed the body behind him and tried to push his weight against Potter to free himself. 

Not a moment later, he was back against the wall. A hand clamped on his neck.

The fire in the hearth was dying down. Against the faint light, Potter was reduced to a looming silhouette. Even in near darkness, Draco was reminded that Potter had a foot above him. A fact that Draco always despised.

Potter didn’t stir or loosen his hold.

The grip tightened with ease, forcing Draco to gasp for air. He clung and clawed the arm, clenched a handful of Potter's thick, unruly hair, grappled Potter's own neck until the tendons palpitated under Draco's hand. He stomped on Potter's foot, gripped and pinched his wrist _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _—_________________ targeting the wounds he had just mended earlier. They wrestled and scuffled, initiating a struggle that Draco knew he would lose in if not for Potter's existing injuries. If not for his empty stomach. If not for the maelstrom of anger, doubt, hate, uncertainty, grief still hurling in his head.

But Draco knew it was for show. 

Potter was only stalling. 

He was picking his next trick.

Another bruised eye, another open wound in the chest, another Cruciatus, another mind-fucking about his death eater father, or his psychotic aunt, or his bitch of a mother whoring herself to live another day _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _—_________________  Draco didn't fucking know. But he was not a _plaything_ — 

He flinched as a fist struck the wall beside his head. The crackling of the knuckles sounded like twigs painfully snapping beside his ear.

“Say that again.” The voice was gruff and threatening. It sent a rapid shock in Draco’s spine. He forcibly shook it off— but Potter had already sensed it, was already inhaling it from their mingling sweat.

Draco looked away. He was a coward and he will deny it. Especially in _this_ moment. Skin, blood, sweat. Potter had made his choice. And Draco knew _for certain_ what purpose he served for tonight.

Every limb of his body was suddenly pumped with a jolting rush. He wanted the wall to eat him up and swallow him whole, he wanted to bury his knuckles into Potter's nose and through his whole fucking skull, he wanted _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _— needed _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _—__________________________________ nothing more than to be  _here_. To be trapped between Potter's rigid arms and imprisoned by the thick steaming air of musk and sweat and thevulgarodor of _him_.

“Open your eyes.” Draco held his breath, and silently refused. 

_Go fuck yourself, you psychotic freak._

A clammy palm cupped his jaw with little— with _no_ grace— and a shadow of a warm, heavy, savaged breath rasped against his ear. “Open. Your fucking eyes.”

Draco swallowed the block in his throat. The blooming ache on his cheek worsened into a penetrating sting. Bones in his neck popped unwillingly from the way it was forcibly gripped to the side.

Potter had broken his jaw before. Draco knew he could do worse. Potter never bluffed. 

He obeyed.

It was immediate— how Draco's senses were infiltrated all at once. The red-hot, greasy texture of Potter’s hand as he clenched Draco’s face and the petrified goosebumps that followed. The stale smell of Firewhisky and coffee radiating from Potter's breath. The thrum of primitive magic fogging the air between them. And the starved look in Potter's eyes when Draco met his gaze finally.

Those green eyes could  _burn_  him. Draco felt a constrict in his chest. He couldn’t breathe, as though Potter had taken up all the air in the room with the way he was heaving like a bull about to charge.

And then. 

And then a tongue was on his face. It slid a wet trail from his chin to his bleeding cheek. Draco's mouth parted at the electric shiver. It was  _vulgar_.

His wound was going to get infected and Potter was a disgusting faggot pig and _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _—_________________

_Please._

The tongue invaded his ear, licking and biting the shell and cleft. A primitive growl shook his ear drums. _Don't._

“ _Fuck_.” The curse sliced through his skin like a razor. Green eyes were on him again and Draco glared at them even as he tried to swallow down the shudder at the stifling proximity of their foreheads resting against each other. He fumbled and clawed still, grasping and pulling the hand locked around his neck, pushing against the chest resting against him, and Potter still kept him confined against the wall, silently reveling Draco's pathetic attempts to resist him.

Draco  _hated_ it. He wanted to strangle the fucker and he tried and failed and tried again, fastening a hand around the curve between the jaw and the crevix, summoning the blood to rise in Potter's gaunt face. His wrist was always seized and overpowered as Potter pushed closer and closer until their noses were bumping, until Draco's skin crawled from the heat of Potter's breath on his cheek.

When his hand lost strength, Draco opted to decamp, feebly but desperately trying to push away. Just push away and fucking run to the door. Potter's heart knocked violently against his palm.

_Please, don't._ Draco's eyelids fluttered in shame at the sound of his own voice. At the sound of begging.   


The chest under his palm rumbled from the gentle rise of a husky, foreboding chuckle. It triggered an unwanted tremor under Draco's sweater.

There was evil in that sound. One that eagerly fed on Draco's futile denial of this feeling— this degrading sensation slowly but thoroughly engulfing his body right this moment— when Potter, one hand flat on the wall, another still on Draco's collarbone, and bare chest right against his, leaned down and used his tongue again.

Because this time, Draco wouldn't resist. He'd push and turn away and squeeze his eyes shut out of disgust at the feeling of wetness licking off the beads of sweat on the side of his neck up to the back of his ear. But Potter knew he wouldn't—couldn't—resist. 

Draco told himself it was out of exhaustion. He was too tired to fight it off. He would if he could, but he just couldn't anymore... a familiar chuckle echoed in his head, drowning the thought.

The insult irritated him. Out of spite, Draco buried a hand into Potter's stubborn hair and tugged threateningly. His warning was shrugged off. The tongue was replaced by teeth and lips, leaving a bruise on his shoulder. When a knee tried to forcibly part his legs, Draco, with all his might, stomped on the foot with the broken ankle.

Forcing out an agonized groan from the mouth on his skin.

"Get off me." He spat on Potter's ear.

One second, maybe two, before Draco realized he should have aimed for the groin. Draco might as well have jumped over the tower with Dumbledore, honestly.

The body against him tensed. Draco breathed in, preparing for what— fuck if he knew.

The air was quickly knocked out of his lungs as he landed, stomach first, on soft fabric. Potter, with bare hands, had just dragged and manhandled him to the mattress like a ragged doll.

Potter was on him not a second later, pinning Draco's legs down with his knees. He tried to push back and haul off the body above him, scratching and elbowing cheek, arm, chest—whatever Draco could get his hands on.

It was pointless, but Draco wasn't— he was _never_  going to make it easy.

He'd been restrained before, been forced down and spreadeagled in far worse circumstances, by people far more _sickening_ than Potter. And Draco had always fought it. He always would, _especially_  if it was Potter—

—And he always lost to him. Potter had him dead on in a head lock. He winced as nails sunk against his nape. But it was the man's dense mass over him, over Draco's damned scrawny physique, that Draco succumbed to. He was on his stomach, face down. Tamed.

"I fucking... _hate_ you—"  


Draco's retort was broken by a strained groan, his mouth gaping against the sheets.

Something hot and rock-hard was pressing against his arse.

Potter was a fucking  _pig_... and— and— Draco whimpered helplessly. 

His sweater— the sweater that Molly had made for him— was ripped like yesterday’s Prophet. Draco shivered, not from the cool air kissing the sweat in his back but from the gutted sound rising from Potter’s chest just by _looking_ at his exposed flesh. His near-skeletal back, bare from the ripped sweater, bent and curved so sinfully, glistening from the sweat under the faint moonlight— Potter, sick in the head, buried the image into Draco's mind.

He made Draco watch through his eyes as he ogled Draco's nakedness, shrouding the image with an undisguised, uncivilized appetite to maul this porcelain skin and make it _bleed_  until _you fucking obey._ Draco winced at the graphic vision, feeling a tinge of fear at how clear it was. Clear and _calculated_. Long, thin ribbons of lacerations dancing from one shoulder down to the opposite hip and in between, some red and welting, others seeping thick blood that dripped to his sides until his back was an obscene canvas of open scars.  The thought made the hard-on sandwiched against his arse throb.

Draco's torture began.

A hand, rough and calloused, pawed every cusp of his spine, traveling down to his tailbone then edging towards his quads— tracing the fantasy of welts that Potter still projected in his head. Draco squirmed— from the harsh touch, from the sickening illusion, from an attempt to break off still— he wasn't sure anymore. But his thrashing and squirming did little to break off the other hand gripping both his wrists over his head, squeezing them tightly until Draco could feel his own violent pulse. With teeth clenched, Draco tossed and turned harder, cursing as his nipples perked and tingled from rubbing too roughly against fabric.

It was difficult, near fucking impossible, to steady his breath under the brute force of that hand, of that—  _God—_ of that tongue. The tongue that was now licking and lapping parts that no one,  _no one else_ had ever touched... the tender skin underneath his armpit, the peel of nerves on the corner of his nape, the thread of muscles on his upper left rib that was always too  _sensitive_  and sent jolts down to his —

Draco gasped. A hand had reached down to his front and was now kneading Draco's own hardening bulge against the thick material of his trousers. Potter’s grip was firm, nearing pain. Draco resisted the discomfort by pushing back _—_ and regretted it immediately. His arse inadvertently rubbed further against Potter's hardness. _Such a little_ _whore_. Potter rumbled a growl and a moan in one breath.

Draco bit down his lip and cursed him silently. He despised everything about Potter, but he  _loathed_ that— that fucking  _cock_. Draco wanted to kick it and taste it and beat it and scald it and swallow it and lap on it and fucking _choke_ on it—

“ _Christ—”_

The sheets suddenly vanished from beneath him and Draco was flipped to face the dark ceiling. He couldn't see a thing and nothing was touching him.

His heart thumped in pure fright, not from the absence of light but from the image being carved into his mind. Draco Malfoy, on the mattress, sweater torn open, chest and stomach hideously covered in scars and utterly exposed, body oscillating violently from deep, panicked breaths. 

Draco closed his eyes _—_ could do nothing else but close them as he watched through Potter's. As the vision neared Draco's vulnerable form, as the bed shuffled, as his whole body was surveyed inch by inch and then— 

The image melted into the darkness.

Something heated, heavy and throbbing trailed from his chin to his lips. 

"Open." 

Draco panted against the throbbing skin through clenched teeth, his rapid breathing moistening it. A hand fastened on his head, pulling his hair down that Draco had to gasp. The moment his lips parted, hot, rigid flesh filled his mouth. 

_Open._

Unapologetic and utterly animalistic the smell of it was. And the taste. The taste of Potter's cock was...  _fuck._

Potter's hips moved in short, uneven, forceful thrusts, pressuring Draco's mouth to open further and further. The more he tried to claw and push away the hips, the harder Potter thrusted. The harder he thrusted, the more Draco groped every edge and chiseled curvature of those hips, sinking the pads of his fingers on the meat in the side buttock.

Draco stubbornly kept his tongue still. Potter retaliated by driving into Draco's thoughts the sight of _such an obedient cocksucker_. Laying there helpless, eyes squeezed shut, a tear or two streaming down his temples, as one rough hand _— I shall not tell lies—_  fondled his chest and traced the scars— _those pretty scars—_  coarsely rubbing his nipples, feeling all his imperfections while his mouth was fucked slowly, thoroughly, while his jaw stretched wide for every inch, while his lips grew red and pulped from the girth, gasping, begging, dutifully sucking.  _Like a filthy little Knockturn whore_. The humiliation. The thrill—It was criminal. It ruined Draco. It ruined him and he needed _more._

With a defeated groan, Draco lifted his head, wrapping an arm around Potter's waist to bury his face deeper so he could properly take in the last inch that hid underneath coarse hair. So he could lap on the long bumpy curve, so he could feel the veins pulsating, so he could trace the outline of the head with his tongue, so he can lap up the bitter liquid spurting from the slit. All the while his ears filled with arduous grunting and growling above him. All the while, he fought against Potter's uncompromising demands, the way his hand painfully clenched and tugged on Draco's hair, the way he cradled Draco's jaw and traced his lips—sometimes gently, sometimes like a fucking caveman— the way another hand was shoved into Draco's trousers from behind, kneading his arse and everything  _in between._

Long, calloused fingers had parted his cleft and were hounding around his hole, tracing the ridges of his pucker, fondling his balls, stroking his own throbbing cock with his pre-cum. Draco had to pull away and rest his face against the crook of the cock completely coated with his own slobber, tears, sweat and blood. He breathed against it from exhaustion, lazily stroking the pulsating length of fresh against his cheek as he rested for a moment, just for a moment.

For his indolence, his trousers were tugged and ripped apart stitch by stitch. A sharp, heavy slap landed on his bare arse. Draco gasped and then gritted his teeth, squeezing Potter's cock until the man groaned in pain.  _Don't._ He snapped before idly nuzzling and lapping at the cock again, wanting to sink his teeth on it just to warn _this impatient mutt_.

“Look at me.”

The words were suddenly too soft, too tender, that Draco nearly did bite Potter's cock off from disgust. He  _should_ rip it off just for having the nerve to _—_

_Look at me, Malfoy._

Draco never thought it possible to shrivel while being so unbearably hard at the same time.

There was a snap of fingers and the fire in the hearth roared. Warm light slowly reclaimed the room from darkness. And it was immediate, how Draco's eyes were cornered by him.

Potter, who was slumped against the headboard of the bed like a drunken prince. His hair tangled, some sticking against his damp forehead, and his body _—_ the narrow line of shoulders, the chest shaved and jagged with cut muscle, the flat stomach lined with sweat _..._ no. No longer a body. A  _machine_. A weapon of war that was beaten and perfected under a layer of dirt-gold skin... skin that was marred with faded scratches, bruises and scabbed scars _—_ most, Draco had treated and tended, others he'd carved with his own wand, with his own hand. 

Draco was blinded by the sight. Completely blinded. He wanted nothing more but to **—** but to—

**—** toplant another fresh cut on that satisfied, shit-eating, smirking face. 

The face of a right tosser. He _hated_ this fucking arsehole, this  _animal,_ and everything he stood for. Draco had endured cold-blooded beatings and Unforgivable curses and crawled like a slave for this fucker and he hated _every_ _second_ of this sick game.

 

_Liar._

 

The hands that abused and violated him not so long ago began to comb off the strands of hair covering his face, spreading the mixture of saliva and precum on his lips, his jaws, his busted cheek. As though he were a territory being pissed on.

 _You are._ A hand squeezed the meat on one arse cheek peeking from his ruined trousers.

 _The best pound of flesh in England_.

Draco sneered at the sheer audacity. The fucking _nerve._ He seized the cock and swallowed it whole until Draco choked, until Potter choked with him. In the few seconds that he was incapacitated, Draco gave a final slurp, and rose to mount on Potter's lap, deliberately sitting on Potter's still injured thigh until the man winced. The git had been looking down on him, treating him like a toy all night— it was _his_  turn. Draco summoned his wand from the floor and planted the tip under Potter's jaw.

"I'm not a _plaything._ " He seethed right to to the smug face.

Potter breathed against him as he planted both hands on Draco's arse and, with sheer immediate force, ripped apart Draco's already ruined trousers before Draco could stop him. Draco winced as the torn fabric was roughly pulled from between his legs, chaffing his skin. 

He was now entirely naked except for the tattered sweater that still desperately clung on his shoulders. 

Brilliant. He was going to have to listen to Molly bitch about ruined clothes again.  _This is the third time, darling, what on Earth?—_

With a wand still pointed at him, Potter, eyes calm, took Draco's pale and smooth cock that tottered on his stomach and began to rub the head with a thumb. 

Draco willfully refused to watch, fighting down the gasp and shivers. He'd first polish Ronald Weasley's boots with his own tongue before giving Potter the satisfaction so quickly. Draco wasn't a whore, but everything had its due price. While Potter amused himself, Draco inched his wand down, from the neck to the chest, right on the spot of Potter's heart. " _Sectum..."_ The word hesitated in his throat. Draco daringly looked up. Potter's eyes were on him still, unwavering.

Draco wanted nothing more but to anger them. " _Sectumsempra_."

The thin, delicate sound of slicing and parting skin was swift. Draco watched in silent awe as a pair of thin, sharp strands of welts sliced against the golden skin in jagged patterns, adding to Potter's collection. They were deep. But they didn't bleed. 

"You have to mean it." Potter said without a hint of pain in his voice.

There was a part of Draco that felt... cheated. Another part, disappointed. There had been a time when he could draw a clean cut through skin and muscle, even bone, with one flick. His finger traced the fresh line of wounds. Without looking at Potter, without permission, he leaned in and tasted the welts, desperately seeking the slight metallic tang of blood against the hot, thrumming skin before the wounds healed and closed up on their own. Heedlessly, his tongue grazed against one nipple, making the body jerk. Potter, who had one hand on Draco's cock and another on his posterior— fingers squeezed in between and feeling that nice, tender little hole— took hold of both of his arse cheeks suddenly and pulled Draco closer until their cocks were pressed against each other, bundled in their bellies. 

The movement forced Draco's face into Potter's. Draco examined the face that he had, for many times, cut and bruised and disfigured. The face that he had hated— still _hated_ — for so long. Potter had firm but plump lips— Draco always liked to split them open with a curse or a fist. He liked it best making them bleed with his teeth. 

With a teasing lick on the bottom lip— only the bottom— Draco pinched it with his teeth. A snake's bite. Potter groaned, spreading his arse in response. Draco bit harder and sucked on the tender flesh, and when he got bored he damaged the skin everywhere else. The stretch under the jaw, the jutting Adam's apple, a curve of the shoulder. When Potter forcibly slide two, three fingers in his mouth, Draco bit them too, and then licked in between and around them, holding Potter's still healing wrist in place as he coated each digit copiously. 

A hand took both their cocks and began squeezing and jerking them together, against each other. Draco was flustered from the roughness and sucked harder.

_Look at you._

Draco sighed, eyebrows crumpling at the carnal shot of him from Potter's eyes. How he fed and slobbered on Potter's fingers like a plain animal. Only a whore could be so _indecent_. But Draco  _wasn't_ a fucking whore.

 _Not a whore._ The words vibrated in the depths of his thoughts. Draco opened his eyes and drowned in the green. _Like a bitch in heat._

 

There was a knock on the door.

Pansy’s voice sifted through.

Draco nearly did bite off one of the fingers.

“Do you want dinner?”

His first instinct was to answer politely _—_ "Kindly fuck off!" _—_ His second instinct was to literally Apparate out of the continent then and there and let his body be splinched and scattered all over parts of Europe. Before Draco could decide, the two fingers, the same fellows that had just been in his mouth, drove between his cleft and planted themselves into his hole. 

Draco gasped and could've toppled over if not for the grip of Potter's arm around his neck, hand clamping his mouth. Potter watched him with a steel gaze, drinking in every whimper and quiver as he played with the bundle of nerves inside Draco, carefully forcing every knuckle in to fondle his insides and rapidly forcing them out to hear Draco cry. 

_ Don't. S-STOP. _  Draco knew he wouldn't. Potter never stopped until he was finished, and he only ever finished when and only when Draco was fervently fucking himself against those fingers. A bitch in heat, indeed.

Potter scissored him open as he slowly lowered Draco onto the mattress. Viciously, he pulled out his fingers and Draco whined into Potter's still clamped hand, huffing when he was turned, like a bag of potatoes, on his stomach. Again.

Draco whitened. Potter had enchanted the wall to grow transparent. 

_You fucking—_

Pansy was looking straight at them, unperturbed. In his state of shock, Draco was unprepared for the pair of hands that parted his cheeks _—Look at that fuckable hole. _—__  and the tongue that followed.

Pansy’s tired face didn’t change. Draco realized. She couldn’t see them. 

“...Degenerate.” Draco gasped. Potter silenced him with a slap on one cheek and an unspoken threat of vanishing the door. 

His arse was perched up higher, and his legs were spread wider. Draco did nothing but watch Pansy walk back and forth on the hallway, his face flat on the mattress as he heaved and mewled on the sheets while his body was being prepared by that tongue. Unable to look at Pansy’s skeletal face any longer _ _—_ god, but it was utterly perverted _ _ _—____  Draco hid his eyes against the crook of an elbow, squeezing them shut so he could feel Potter— Harry bloody Potter, the Golden Savior— bury his face and eat out Draco’s arse.

“Please...” He whimpered against his arm, saliva dripping on the corner of his lips.  

_ Say it. _

Draco whimpered. _Potter_ _—_  

His busted cheek, slightly swollen, was pushed down against the sheets. The mouth that had been tonguing his pucker now hovered over his ear, growling. “ _Say_ it. I want to hear you.” 

Draco, whose hole was leaking with drool and _oh_ so ready, gently parted his eyes to look up at the man set to undo him. “Please… " _Harry_. "Fuck me _..."_

This was how Draco ended his day, with his hole prepped, loosened and impaled on a cock. Harry Potter's cock.

Potter fucked him. While Draco watched Pansy walk off and Mr. Weasley pass by to leave a tray of food by the floor, Potter breathed down his neck and fucked him. While rebels, fugitives, exiles — all half-bloods, mudbloods, blood traitors who’d die for Potter— passed by the room, Potter fucked him and fucked him hard in front of them.

Draco covered his mouth if only to shut himself up. As quickly as he did, Potter pulled his hand off and locked his arm— both his arms— against his back, pushing him further against the mattress at every thrust.  Draco helplessly bit his lip as tears, drool and sweat dripped down his face. God, what  would these people think if they could see their hero right now. _What would they think of you, Potter?_

The hand locking his arms loosened as Draco's hands were tugged and guided to — Draco bit down a whimper — to part his arse cheeks and part them wide— _wider —_ _for me_. Draco peeked from over his shoulder to watch the silent delirium unfolding in Potter's face at the sight of this. This sacrificial lamb offering himself up for slaughter. Offering this tight, sweet, pink hole for a good thorough slaughtering. Draco's whole body began to shake from unrest, from excitement, from complete madness at being so _fucking full._

Potter's eyes cornered him again, too quickly and suddenly that Draco's cheeks flushed even now. Because never in the near eight years they knew each other—  never did Draco expect to be perched up like this, naked, opening his own arsehole for Harry Potter, the scrawny boy with the funny glasses and over-worn clothes who  _wouldn't_ shake his hand back then, who now loomed over him as the second most dangerous man in the continent with his cock—  that fucking beautiful cock—  buried in Draco. The shame was unbearable—  it made Draco's own cock so fucking hard and dripping. 

Something warm and slippery was dumped on his back and down between his arse. Potter had just emptied the bottle of oil Draco'd been using earlier on the cock buried half-way into Draco's hole, spreading it all over his pale body. Draco parted his cheeks even more, allowing room for the cock to sink in deeper,  _balls deep_ into that  _boy cunt_. Draco’s mouth gaped, releasing a strained whimper as he watched through Potter’s eyes his little hole being pounded, as he listened to Potter’s depraved thoughts while he was fucked against the mattress, in full view of the oblivious world. 

_They'd see how well you spread open that tight little cunt. They'd see how fucking loose you are for me. You want them to, don't you?_

His hair was pulled and Draco was forced to look at the passers-by through the wall while he was used. 

_Bet you've been waiting for this all fucking day, hmm? You think I don't know? Think I don't know that this—THIS— is all you think about every fucking hour? I always know... I've seen what you do in my room while I'm stuck with Snape in the morning. I can smell what you leave behind in my sheets, on my fucking clothes. You're WORSE than a whore, Malfoy. All that filth in your head while you're alone on my bed fingering yourself— Those Slytherin Quidditch cocks you've had in your mouth. Durmstrang boys, how they passed you around. The pretty queers in France— taught you how to bend over proper, like a trained pup... And I bet you get a good thorough practice with McLaggen and his men down the cellar when I'm out of the house. Think I don't know?  You think they'd even dare touch you without my say so? I always know, Malfoy. I. Always. Watch. _

Draco— cheeks red, eyes blurred with tears, face against the mattress— had to grab on the sheets as thrust after thrust forced a cry out of him.

_ God, Malfoy, yours is the most used cunt I've had. But you can't get enough, can't you? All those faggoty cocks round the clock and you're still here. Know why? Because no matter how many times you wank off on my sock with my used pants on your face, it's not gonna be enough. You can spread this arse for anyone all you want while I'm out there killing off your death eater friends. I know once I get back, you'll spread them wider for me. You're my proper little bitch— _

Draco mewled. "I'm— I'm c—"  

___—___ _I can order every able suit in this house to take_ _turns on your sweet cunt with one Imperius and you'll still look for my cock. I don’t even need a fucking spell on you, because you'll spread that pussy whenever I say so—_

"I'm — I'm gonna cu— _Ugh_ —" _ _Slap. Slap. SLAP.__ "God—"  _Fuck me, fill me up—please, I want to be so full—Fuck me—Fuck me, please, "Harry—"_

“I  _own_ you _."_

Draco exploded. His cock, untouched, pulsated on its own, spraying the sheets with ropes of thick white spunk. All the while, every limb of his body convulsed— both from the orgasm and Potter still driving into him without interruption. 

Because the night only finished when Potter did. And Potter would fuck him— had fucked him— while he was limp and weak just to get off. He would finish Draco early _just so_ he could fuck him unconscious. 

But not tonight.

Draco fought against the rapid descent of adrenaline draining and reached out behind him, feebly grabbing a handful of thick, damp hair. The perverse _SLAP, SLAP, SLAP_ of Potter’s hips against his cheeks filled the room. 

He could feel it. He could feel that cock so fucking ready to fill him up—

“W-wait…” He whimpered. Potter, of course, didn't listen. Draco, with the last shred of strength he had, elbowed straight for the nose.

The git really did need to work on responding to surprise manoeuvres.

Potter swore and the force of it thrummed around the room. Some of the bottles in the medical box clinked and the fire fluttered. Draco might’ve heard a bone crack. He didn’t know, neither did he care. He shoved Potter off until he was on his back, groaning and pinching his nose from the drop of blood dripping out.

Draco snorted, for which he received a glare and a hand raised in threat— 

Before Potter could retaliate, Draco, fondling his own cock with his own cum, stood over him and, with the little grace he could muster, kneeled and slowly, very slowly, sunk back down on that still glistening rigid cock. Potter, face red and jaws hard, cradled the underside of Draco's thighs to slow Draco's descent even more. Because Potter liked to watch when Draco dropped down to his knees, but even more so when Draco mounted him from above.

Gasping three, five, eight times at how slick his hole was and how smoothly that cock fit right in, Draco flattened his hands against the chest beneath him, fingers brushing against the sprinkle of growing hair and scars— some fresh, others never faded. Draco drank in the rhythm of the heart beating against his palms as Potter's hands wandered, groping what he wanted— Draco's waning cock, his hips, his chest, his arms. One hand lingered over the flaky strip of marred skin that stretched from Draco's left wrist to the inside of his elbow— another wound that Potter gave him, another that would never heal— that Draco never wanted to heal.

Amid the terror of war, people were prone to romanticize the every day. Draco liked to think he wasn't one of them. He'd _like_ to.

In the unusual nights he was allowed on top, Draco always savored the view from above. To lean back and have Potter thrust his hips underneath him. To be watched while he stroke his cock into partial hardness. To be used like this. To be spread open and taken all at once like this because—

 

_I_  am _your whore._ Draco leaned down, flattening his chest against Potter's and resting his brows against the scarred forehead, watching those deadly green eyes watch him as he gyrated his hips, humping up, down, back and forth.

 

_I’d let you fuck me in front of your half-wit friends and all your henchmen. I’d let you cut me open again so I can bleed while I ride this cock right in front of McLaggen and the Dark Lord and Weasley and his whole fucking family including and especially your dead traitor girlfriend's corpse just so they know that_ “You're mine.” He whispered weakly. Draco fought the heat in his cheeks at the way Potter held him close. At the way Potter looked at him, teeth clenched, eyes wide, angered and restless.

 

Draco rode him until Potter's lips parted— in silence, in awe, in horror, in complete and utter surrender. 

 

_You're mine_ _, Harry._

 

As the old clock downstairs toll for midnight, Draco cradled the face of the man he tortured every morning and served on his knees by nightfall. The man who opened his chest and made him bleed all those years ago until now. The man he hated and would die for.

No one would understand how Draco felt, as he thrust his tongue into Potter’s— into Harry’s mouth. As they tasted each other’s salt, blood, and sweat. As the cock inside him finally bursted and thrummed, loading his hole with heat and cum and pure, primitive, raging magic.

The world was in flames around them and nobody would understand. Nobody else could. Nobody else  _should_.

Only Draco. Only Harry Potter's hatchet man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, cheesy ending. Guess I lied a bit about the 'love' part. If you can call it that.
> 
> Kudos if I made you cum.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, praises, suggestions, criticism, rants, death threats, bible verses-- say what you want, we're all degenerates. 
> 
> Fuck canon.


End file.
